


Good Food, Good Meat

by one_windiga



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Gen, M/M, Thanksgiving, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_windiga/pseuds/one_windiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The doorbell rang, and Stiles had never thought that a doorbell could sound hesitant until now."</p>
<p>Derek has Thanksgiving Dinner at the Stilinski house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Food, Good Meat

The doorbell rang, and Stiles had never thought that a doorbell could sound hesitant until now.

"You getting that?" his dad shouted from the kitchen above the distant sound of a tinny radio and a stand mixer.

He hurried downstairs from his room, taking the stairs two steps at a time, as usual, which made him slip in his socks on the hardwood. A twist on the handle, and the door revealed Derek standing on the front stoop in his daily uniform of a leather coat and white tee, shoulders hunched slightly.

"Dude, you're just in time, the biscuits just came out and I can totally steal some."

"Uh, no, that's fine, I can wait," Derek said, casting him a look that Stiles refused to shrink in front of.

"Well? Are you coming inside or not?" Stiles waved an arm to the front hall in a Vanna White movement, eyebrows waggling.

Derek rolled his eyes, kicking his feet against the welcome mat to knock off the dirt and stepping inside. Stiles saw the way that his eyes sought out the holiday decorations, the cheap paper turkey hanging in the window, the pine cones spray painted gold on the banister, the cornucopia he'd made in third grade art class on the table.

"C'mon, you can help me set the table."

With that, he led Derek into the dining room to start parsing out plates and silverware. His dad cast them both slightly tense, squinted looks as they did, but turned back to his turkey firmly. His father's difficulty with the entire werewolf thing was well documented, but he was trying, and Stiles was going to remain entirely mute on the subject of his remaining discomfort if it killed him. He wasn't going to screw up months of progress by calling him on it. Instead, he showed Derek which forks went on the outside, and held out his hands to show him the b and d rule of the bread plate and drink placement.

The food was one thing they could all agree on. The turkey was carried out with no small amount of fanfare on his dad's part, followed by the carving, and he thought his dad seemed a little pleased by how much of his turkey Derek put down in one helping.

Besides the turkey, honestly, it wasn't that spectacular. The mashed potatoes were made from a box, as was the stuffing, and the cranberry sauce came right from a can. It sat on the dish with the can-shaped ridges still in it. The corn was canned, the pumpkin pie was frozen, and the bread was Pillsbury.

It didn't seem to matter.

"Could you pass me the biscuits, please, Mr. Stilinski?" Derek asked politely, and Stiles had only ever seen him that polite in front of - well, frankly, he'd never seen him that polite in front of anyone.

"Dude, you've had, like, twelve."

"Stiles, we have more than enough," his father chided. "This is Thanksgiving, there's always enough leftovers to feed an army."

"Or there's just enough food to feed one werewolf," Stiles retorted as his father passed over the basket.

Ignoring him entirely, Derek took it, picking out another three. "Thanks," he said. He could count on one hand the number of times Derek had ever thanked him for anything, jaunts into lethal danger included.

Then again, he wasn't left out of the weird politeness, either. When he poured Derek another glass of sparkling cider, he'd been thanked, and that had felt so weird that he'd done a bit of a double take.

They ate their food in what nobody wanted to admit was awkward conversation. Stiles, naturally, filled most of the void by talking, as he was born to do. The subject matter switched at the speed of light, skipping like a stone on a lake, touching down at one thing only to jump to another before making more than a ripple. Derek and his father mostly nodded or interjected brief comments as they ate, lots of 'sure's and 'that was crazy' and 'what are you talking about?'

The pumpkin pie was burnt a little around the edges because their oven wasn't quite calibrated right, despite everyone's best efforts to fix it. But when it was drowned in enough whipped cream, you couldn't really tell, and that was how Stiles liked it best anyway.

After dinner, the tradition was that they went around the room stating things that they were thankful for. Stiles had done it since he was a kid, back when his statements were mostly centered around, 'I'm thankful that Bobby White got his teeth punched in,' or 'I'm thankful for Snickers bars and Star Wars.' When he was older, he got better at it. And then they'd stopped having anything to be thankful for, after his mom had died.

His dad obviously intended to let this year be like the last, when they'd skipped the tradition entirely; as soon as the pie was gone, he stood up and started gathering up dishes, clearing his throat.

"Sit back down, where are you going?" Stiles demanded, gesturing with his fork towards the empty seat.

He was given a surprised and incredulous look in return.

"Yes, I'm talking to you, sit down. We're giving thanks, and that means all of us," he said plainly, as if it wasn't the huge deal that it was.

After a moment, he sat down, glancing between Derek and Stiles. Stiles nodded, satisfied, and explained to Derek, "We go around the table and say what we're thankful for this year. Doesn't have to be a lot, just a sentence."

Derek got that tight-between-the-eyes look that he got when he was put upon to be overly social. Stiles suspected that tonight had blown out his entire social quota for the month, possibly the year. And he hadn't even been punching anyone. Stiles counted that as a personal victory.

"You start, Dad," he ordered.

His father looked a little flustered, but he set down his glass and thought a moment before saying, "I'm thankful that my son has friends that are looking out for him." He cast a look to Derek that was both warm and weary.

Derek stilled slightly, then dropped his chin a bit in a nod. Stiles was torn for a moment between being touched and being embarrassed. Touched won out eventually as his father raised his glass and sipped.

"Right! My turn! I," he said, glancing at his father and Derek, "am thankful that we're not dead."

He made it sound facetious, as always, but that was just his way. The light tone was like cotton over marble, unable to cushion the heaviness and the hardness of the rock beneath. There were too many ways they all could have died over the past year, far too many close calls, snapped bones, bloodstains and concussions. They'd managed to pull through by some miracle, grabbing onto the coattails of luck and holding on tight. They'd gotten through without having one more empty seat at the dinner table.

His dad fell silent, and when Stiles looked his way, the old worry was tempered with a new expression, a twist of pride to his lips. After a moment, he turned Derek's way. "I believe that's your turn now."

Derek looked down at his empty plate of food, only a few crumbs and a smudge of gravy belying the fact that nearly four full servings of the entire table had disappeared from it.

"I'm thankful for... good food," he said with a smile, nodding to the remains of the turkey.

It was a total copout, Stiles knew. Food he could get anywhere. _Better_ food he could get anywhere. But the family to eat it with, and all the stupid things that came with it, the childish decorations, the holiday china, even the awkward conversation... that was something Derek hadn't had in a long time. It made him stiff around the edges, conscious of everything breakable and soft.

Instead of calling him on it, he raised his glass. "To good food!"  



End file.
